


Trickster

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Competence Kink, Cunnilingus, F/M, Polyamory, Pregnancy Kink, Top!Mary, Vaginal Sex, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not trying to work out anything anymore. For the time being, he is satisfied to drown in the form this trickster goddess has taken. Today, for John, for him, she is Mary. Sherlock likes Mary. He is fairly sure he likes the woman underneath. But there is no way to know absolutely, and he likes that most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trickster

**Author's Note:**

> There was no betaing here. I'm so sorry.

Sherlock is laid out on the couch with his hands steepled under his chin. He has a problem, and not the good kind.

It started with a text: “Call the fit DI. Have a birthday gift for him.” Sherlock went over with Lestrade and found Mary sitting cross-legged on the nursery floor assembling something luridly pink.

She waved toward the bathroom without looking up. “Your new friend got a bit dizzy, so I laid him down in the tub.”

Lestrade looked in and went pale. “Bloody hell!”

Mary made a face at a length of coral-painted wood that would not quite slot into a piece of salmon-painted wood. “I may have made sure he stayed there.”

“Fucking Christ. Uh—pardon me.” Lestrade rattled off a series of instructions into his phone.

Sherlock stopped listening. He looked from the unconscious South African hitman in the bathroom to Mary, who was leaning back to massage her round belly and grimacing, and realized he had a problem.

Sherlock considers his laptop, and the encrypted file hidden in with his case write-ups. He'd nicked that thumb drive. Of course he'd nicked it. John still types with two fingers; he's not going to notice someone taking a flash drive, copying it, and putting it back. There were over ninety gigabytes of information, so the file transfer took some time. He still got it back to John's dresser in plenty of time.

Sherlock tucked the files away in a subfolder of a subfolder, all the case reports and false identities and news clippings and security footage. But he didn't look. It would be much more diverting to work it out himself. Mary is a puzzle, and he is allowed to solve her.

Four months on, he hasn't put together a cohesive picture.

He’s gotten a little from her body, the old scars and healed over breaks. He studies them around John’s mouth and snatches glimpses around John’s lips stippling kisses over Mary’s skin. Mary sees him. Sherlock knows this because she catches his eye over John’s shoulder as they take him and he watches her face change. It's for him, just him, when her eyes go dark and dangerous.

With John, she does not have to pretend. With Sherlock, she does not have to hide. What John does not care about, Sherlock is entranced by.

_Yes_ , he thinks. _Definitely a problem._

“John,” he says aloud. “My phone.”

“I’ll get your phone if you get me a back rub,” says Mary.

Sherlock opens his eyes and frowns. Ah. Yes. Now that he considers, John _may_ have run out to the shops an hour ago.

Mary drops his phone on his chest and lowers herself onto the edge of the coffee table. At nearly thirty weeks along, she's had to move around with more and more caution. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“American,” he says suddenly.

“What? Oh. No.”

He scowls. Who works for the CIA and isn’t American? “You were born in ’76 though.”

“Yep.”

“Canadian.”

“Mm, _non.”_

Ha! “French!”

“Eh…”

“Oh, please, it’s clearly one of the two.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

“No!” He sits up and looks her over carefully. He strolls through his mind palace, retrieving Mary’s oldest scars. Bicycle accident, acquired prior to adolescence. Worth a try.

“How did you learn to ride a bicycle?” he asks, in intentionally halting French.

“My mother taught me in the street in front of our house,” she answers, in much better French.

He springs to his feet, triumphant. “French-born, emigrated to Quebec before age six.”

Mary inclines her head. “Well done. The accent?”

“You clearly grew up in a city, and no one lets their children ride their bicycles in an urban European street.”

“No one?”

“Yours wouldn’t.”

“Bit of a stretch.”

“Please, you gave it to me.”

Mary smirks. “Little.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “If you corrected for every poor French accent you heard, you’d have blown your cover decades ago.”

“It _is_ hard not to.”

“Harder to act like you can’t speak it.”

“Mm, I disagree.”

“You would.”

Mary smiles, takes Sherlock's mobile from her pocket, and hands it over. “Well now, you’ve gotten a workout and I’ve gotten you your phone. I’d say I’m owed a back rub.” She turns round, swinging her legs over the other side of the table and presenting Sherlock with her back. “Get cracking, pretty boy.”

Sherlock sits back down on the couch, takes Mary’s shoulders, and digs his thumbs into the taut muscles there.

“Mm.” She tips her head back and lets her eyes drift shut.

Sherlock works his way down slowly, giving every muscle group the same careful, curious attention. At the lumbar region he balls his hands up and rubs his knuckles in hard. Mary arches her back under his hands and groans in relief. Sherlock’s own spine relaxes in sympathy.

“Where in God’s name did you learn this?” she murmurs, distracted.

He clears his throat. “I, er, didn’t.”

“Ooh, quick study.” She rolls her shoulders. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock frowns. “What?”  
“You’re looking. Go ahead. Show off.”

Sherlock’s brain lights up like a switchboard. He isolates information, connects data, sketches out patterns. But thinking aloud is more his style. It doesn't help that it's decidedly more showy, too.

“You did train in America, though much of your skill set is specialized—Mossad, or perhaps Spetsnaz. That can’t be picked up freelance. You’ve got no living family, no siblings, parents died when you were between eighteen and...twenty-two? No, twenty. You studied...something soft, but useful, like political science or international studies, and played sports.”

“What sports?”

“Mm, at least two. Some martial art, aikido at a guess, and something aerobic and team-oriented, but not competitively. Lacrosse, perhaps, or softball.”

“Hockey. I _was_ Canadian.”

Sherlock’s hand is cramping up. He pauses to shake it out. Mary twists her head over her shoulder so she can see him.

“I’m beginning to think substantially less of your much-lauded brother,” she says.

Sherlock frowns. “Why is—”

“If he had half as much as you did on me, I’d be talking from the other side of a Plexiglass wall.”

Sherlock smirks. “I’m not my brother.”

Mary turns round to face him. “Not in the least.” She leans forward and brings her hands to the top button of her shirt. “What else can you see?”

Sherlock’s pulse flutters. “Everything.”

She’s undoing the buttons one by one, smiling coquettishly. “No you can’t.”

It’s true, and it makes him want to look all the harder.

Mary slips the shirt from her shoulders. She hates most of her maternity clothes and goes half-naked as much as humanly possible, so she’s not wearing any bottoms. They sit there, Mary, in her bra and knickers and Sherlock in his pyjamas and new camel dressing gown, staring each other down.

Sherlock moves first. He sets his splayed hand on Mary’s chest, letting his fingers lay over the hollow of her throat. There’s a scar there, just a little nick, disguised among the natural lines of her neck.

“Someone had poor aim—no.” He narrows his eyes. “No, you dodged at the last second.”

Mary raises an eyebrow and nods. Sherlock’s hand moves backwards, fingers combing into her hair, feeling out the skin over her scalp. He takes her head in both hands to do this.

“Head wound here requiring surgery—dura mater repair, in fact—”

“You’re guessing.”

“Size of scar and extent of skull remodeling.”

Mary sighs. “Very well.”

“Caused by...rifle butt?”

“Now you’re guessing.”

“A little,” Sherlock admits.

“Chunk of ice.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Fell off a mountain.”

Something twinges in Sherlock’s chest. He blinks slowly, withdraws his hands, and holds them out, palms up. Mary puts her hands in his. Sherlock holds them up to inspect.

“Broken several of the bones in the right—stiffness and relative ambidexterity for a right-handed person in your profession. Bit of nerve damage, too. Boot?”

Mary grimaces. “Louboutin.”

Sherlock winces sympathetically.

He moves up her body, hand to wrist to elbow to shoulder, and down to the swell of her breast above the lacy cup of her bra. There’s a fine white line of collagen running from there to just under her collarbone.

“Superficial laceration, some sort of—high-end thrown dagger.” He closes his eyes. He needs to concentration to run scenarios. “You dodged backwards—no, you were descending, on a ladder or a rope, and it was thrown from above.”

“Clever boy. Rope ladder.”

“Tibet?”

“Nepal.”

He fans his hands out over her belly. She smiles as he draws them over the taut, stretched skin and down, and down, and down. His hands stop at the tops of her thighs. So do his eyes.

Mary grins. “Not much else to see, love,” she says.

Sherlock doesn’t look away. Mary cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow.

“Unless,” she says, “there is?”

Sherlock considers the idea. To his mild surprise, he finds himself amenable. Intrigued, even. Mary Watson is a very intriguing woman, after all, even without the added factor of John. He’d like to explore this frisson between the two of them, the crackle that’s not unlike the thrill of the chase.

His mouth curls up. “Perhaps there is at that,” he says.

Mary grins. “Oh, it’s Christmas.” She pats his knee. “Come on, then, help a girl up. I’m less bouncy these days.”

Sherlock rises from the couch, takes Mary’s outstretched hands and helps her to her feet. She sighs.

“As long as hauling my beached-whale body from the floor wasn’t a total mood-killer...”

Sherlock stares her down. “A week ago, you put a professionally trained assassin in the hospital while carrying an extra thirty pounds—”

“Twenty-five!”

_“—thirty_ pounds of dead weight, and went back to building a bassinet. I haven’t been so aroused since John made a perfect kill shot on an angry dog at thirty feet, in the dark, in the fog, while drugged.”

Mary pouts. “I’ll thank you not to refer to my firstborn as ‘dead weight.’”

Sherlock takes her by the hips and pulls her in close. She grins.

“I want to take you apart,” he growls.

Mary shivers. “Well, then, sweet-cheeks, best get to it.”

He smirks. “Your place or mine, Mrs. Watson?”

“It’s all more of an ‘ours’ sort of arrangement if we’re being honest. You know I’d kill a man to get into _your_ bed, though.”

“Nearly did. That’s what put me in this…predicament.” Sherlock pulls a cross face.

Mary giggles. “Bed's clean?”

Sherlock considers. “Enough.”

“No time to waste, then.”

They make their way down the hall the way they have before. It's different this way, without John. There is less pretense between them in his absence.

Mary tumbles backward onto the bed and luxuriates in the texture of the sheets. Sherlock stands over her and raises an eyebrow as he unbuttons his shirt. Mary watches him with a smug smile on her face.

“Lord, I can’t believe John didn’t break a piece off earlier,” she says. “Come on, get the rest of your clothes off and then come help me.” She wiggles her hips suggestively.

Sherlock sheds his shirt and joins her on the bed. He crawls up next to her, lays on his side, cups her chin, turns her head toward his, and kisses her lazily. She sighs into his mouth. One of his hands rests on her breast. Sherlock flicks his thumb back and forth over her nipple, and Mary twitches and squirms at every pass.

"Mr. Holmes," Mary says, "that's lovely and all, but you're going to have to do something for me, or I will call my husband home and he will actually give me a seeing-to."

"Anything but that," says Sherlock.

Still, he lets his hand move further down, trailing the backs of his knuckles over her swollen belly, up and over its peak and then down, down, down…

Sherlock's fingers slide between her legs and over her clit, where she is already wet and wanting. She spreads her legs and angles herself up in a clear invitation that Sherlock does not take. Instead, he keeps skimming over the rim of her, catching at her clit and gently tugging, until she's trying to grind down onto his hand in desperation.

"I don't ask nicely," she singsongs, but the way she's clutching at Sherlock says otherwise.

"Is that so, Mrs. Watson?"

She nips at his jaw in retaliation. "Knock it off, fuck prince, and get between my legs."

Despite her growing stomach, Mary's legs still drape nicely over Sherlock's shoulders. He plants a kiss on the inside of her thigh. She shivers appreciatively.

"Legs good here?" Mary murmurs.

"Perfect," Sherlock says, and bends to his task.

The first time he'd done this for her, it had been under John's instruction, with John's hands and voice guiding Sherlock through exactly how to please a woman—how to please _this_ woman. Sherlock was tentative then, unsure around the unfamiliar landscape. He is not tentative now.

Mary gasps. Her legs tighten around Sherlock's head and one foot trails up his spine. "Oh. Clever boy."

Sherlock licks a long stripe up her length and goes about gently tracing circles around her clit without ever making direct contact. Mary's foot slips off his shoulder. She hooks her hand under her knee and pulls it towards her chest to give him more space. With one arm now free of her weight, Sherlock has a hand to spare for more pressing matters.

"Two fingers straight off," she says with a cheeky grin. "Daring."

Sherlock curls his fingers inside of her, making her whole body flex and arch. Mary weaves her fingers through his hair and tugs, which makes Sherlock gasp. Just like that, everything takes on that much more urgency. They develop a rhythm, giving and taking, trading desire and pleasure back and forth until they're drunk on it.

Sherlock is not trying to work out anything anymore. For the time being, he is satisfied to drown in the form this trickster goddess has taken. Today, for John, for him, she is Mary. Sherlock likes Mary. He is fairly sure he likes the woman underneath. But there is no way to know absolutely, and he likes that most of all.

They go on this way for some time, but then Mary reaches down and taps the top of Sherlock's head. "Up," she says. "I want a proper fucking."

Only a madman would deny that. Sherlock retreats. Mary gets onto her front—she's just the littlest bit more ungainly these days, and it makes Sherlock's cock throb—and rests her face on her elbows. Sherlock's breath catches.

"All right, then," she says in mock resignation. "Go on."

Sherlock's hands skate over the scars on her back, so much like his own. Then he lets them fall down her sides, around the lush curves of her hips and over the round curve of her belly. Something catches in his throat. For one terrifying, nearly overwhelming moment, he feels everything, how this woman is rough and dangerous and battle-worn, and also soft and comforting and teeming with life. Sherlock pauses for a moment to catch his breath.

Mary turns her head back. "You okay back there?"

Sherlock blinks. "Um. I. Yes." He blinks ahead, and the fog clears. "Absolutely fine."

Just to prove how fine he is, he takes his cock in hand and eases it just against Mary's cunt. His other hand on her arse keeps her from leaning back and taking the rest.

"Come on!" She swings one hand back and slaps Sherlock on the side of the thigh. "You wait til my husband gets home."

"Counting on it," Sherlock purrs, and pushes in.

He makes a good show of looking suave and confident, but _God_ , he's already clenching his teeth and doing his damnedest not to come. Every inch Mary takes seems to drive the air out of her in ragged exaltations. He bites his lip in hopes that the pain will help him focus.

"Oh, God, get to it," she says, when he's all the way in and staying very, very still.

Sherlock just shakes his head fiercely. Mary drops her head into her hands and groans.

"God, I don't care if you come in thirty minutes or thirty seconds as long as you fuck me first."

Just for that, Sherlock is fairly sure he can manage a bit longer in spite alone. He pulls half out and drives back in, pushing in and grinding so Mary's breath catches. She bounces back onto him.

"That's the ticket," she says, with a laugh in her voice. "More. Harder."

Instead, Sherlock draws back and out, takes his cock in hand, and drags the head over the slick rim of Mary's cunt.

For a moment, Mary doesn't react, except to inhale sharply. Then she moves.

Sherlock isn't sure how it happens. He only works out the details of the choreography afterwards. As best as he can remember, it goes like this:

Mary hooks him behind the knee with one leg and pulls his out from under him. Sherlock falls backwards, other leg splaying out underneath him. Mary pivots a full hundred and eighty degrees on her knee, pins Sherlock's wrists to the bed in one hand, and presses the other to his throat.

Sherlock is quivering. He is _electric_. He moves to speak, to say something, but Mary just presses down and makes it the tiniest bit harder to breathe.

"Ah!" she says. "Don't test me, Sherlock. You remember how that goes, don't you?"

Sherlock grimaces.

"Now," says Mary, "we are going to try again. This time, you'll do it properly, yes?"

Sherlock's eyes are starting to tear. He blinks and nods.

Mary smiles magnanimously. "Good boy. Help me get that lovely prick back up in me."

She releases her hold on his hands and throat. He gasps in a breath.

"Thank you," he says.

"Don't make me regret it. Go on. You know your business."

Sherlock's eyes glitter. Mary rises up on her knees to give him the space to reach down between them, set everything in place, and—oh, God, she takes the initiative, sinks down and impales herself with a fully-voiced cry of blissful satisfaction.

Sherlock throws his head back and groans. Above him, Mary rocks lazily back and forth on Sherlock's cock. Her hand is splayed over his breastbone, her thumb on one collarbone and her middle finger on the other. If she shifted forward and put her weight on that hand, she could close off his airway and block the flow of oxygen to his brain. He would be unconscious in fifteen seconds, dead in five minutes. With a thrill that goes all the way down to his toes, Sherlock knows beyond all doubt that it would not be the first time Mary would have used these means to kill someone.

Mary sees the realization dawn in his eyes and smirks. "I don't think that'll be necessary," she says with a wink. "Not if you do your job."

Sherlock cups her arse with enough strength to give her movements a little more kick. He bucks his hips up into her and gives her something to really fight against.

After a minute of this, he realizes Mary is talking. She does that, her and John both. When they're both here, it's practically incessant. Side conversations, offhand remarks about Sherlock's bum...it could drive a man to distraction.

But just now, it's only his trickster goddess, his Mary.

"This is what gets you going, is it?" she is saying. "The layers. The facade, you called it. You like to know how deep it goes. You like knowing what it's hiding."

Sherlock moans, slides one hand up to her breast, and cups it, just feeling. Mary sighs.

"It's the knowing that it's not a facade," she goes on, through hooded eyes and quickening movements. "I'm both. I'm neither." She drags his other hand up to cover her stomach and Sherlock gasps. "I am a mother, and I am a murderer. I put a bullet in you, and you're unspeakably dear to me."

Sherlock whines. It's all so much. He can feel a knife scar under his left hand, over the upper curve of Mary's stomach in which she is harboring a human life. Just as he is coming, Sherlock thinks, _"A goddess indeed."_

Mary disengages, rolls off, and lies on her side. When Sherlock reboots enough brain functions to turn his head to the side, he finds she is grinning.

"Well," she says, "that's a way to spend an evening."

Sherlock flashes her an answering grin. "

"I'm not washing your sheets."

Sherlock shrugs.

"Yeah, but they're still going to be washed."

"Accurate use of the passive tense, given—"

"If you make Mrs. Hudson, next time John is up for it I will suck him so well and so long he cries, and you will get nothing but a dreadful view of his backside. Mm, no, not even that. You'll get occasional text updates. I know you're considering it too, and I am telling you right now: they will not be the fun sort. Now, if you know what's good for you, go get us a flannel."

Knowing what's good for him, Sherlock gets up and fetches the flannel.

 


End file.
